


The Stars, They Must Be Singing

by taking_sweet_time



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Cancer, Character Death, Childhood, Coming of Age, Cute, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Sick Harry, Terminal Illnesses, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:51:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taking_sweet_time/pseuds/taking_sweet_time
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry shouldn't be alive.  Louis doesn't live until he's found him.</p>
<p>(Previously titled 'Stars')</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another of Sadie's. Beautiful.

❡❡❡

 

Harry likes the boy with the blue eyes.  

He likes the way his hair looks like the feathers on his stuffed duck.

He likes how small and soft his hands are, and how he’s not ashamed to stick his thumb in his mouth in front of grown-ups.

He likes the way his eyebrows scrunch and how he bites his lip when he’s reading a book, and he likes how impressive he is because Harry still doesn’t know how to read chapter books yet.

He likes the way he wears those soft, smooth shoes that look like his sister’s slippers, the shoes that are named after his favourite Uncle Tom.

He likes how dark the boy’s skin looks next to his.  He likes how his skin looks like the caramel his mum brings him from the gift shop and how Harry’s skin looks like the milk that Harry’s not allowed to drink anymore, because the doctors say it will hurt his tummy.

He likes the way the boy’s nails are pink and strong, and that’s good because Harry needs someone around to help him untie the strings of his hospital gown when his own nails are too white and frail.

He likes the boy with the blue eyes because, when he asked why Harry didn’t have any hair and Harry told him that it disappeared, all he said was, “Cool.”  

And then Harry felt  _cool,_ like the red Power Ranger, and when he told this to the boy, the boy’s cheeks turned the colour of his mum’s lipstick and then he brought over all his Power Rangers and dumped them onto Harry’s lap.  Harry likes the boy because he’s the only one in the hospital who will play with him.

He  _really_ likes the way the boy’s name sounds on his tongue— _Louis._ It sounds like ribbons falling from his lips; it sounds like the noise the stars might make.  Harry can’t ever remember seeing the stars before and he doesn’t even know if they make sounds or not, but if they do, he think they’d make sounds that sound like  _Louis._

That’s another thing Harry likes—the stars.  Well, he likes the idea of them.  Apparently, they’re bright and soft, and they’re always there, but sometimes they’re invisible—just like the silver Phantom Ranger.   Maybe he likes them so much because nobody really knows what they are—he’s heard so many things about them.  His mum tells him that they’re balls of fire and gas burning a gazillion miles away, and that they’re so big, they could scoop up the earth in their hands and tuck it into bed.  His sister tells him that they’re twinkling lights that make different pictures in the sky, like the Connect-the-Dots pages in the colouring books Harry has.  The man in the black and white dress who wears the funny-looking cross around his neck tells Harry that they’re part of the heavens, creations of God (but Harry has yet to figure out what he’s talking about).  Maybe that’s why Harry likes stars—because everyone thinks differently about them; because they have so much depth.  Sometimes, Harry wishes he were a star.  Maybe then, he’d be a blob of fire.  He’d be a picture in the sky.  He’d be a part of the heavens.  He’d be anything but Harry Styles, the five-year-old with acute myeloid leukaemia.  

 

❡❡❡

 

Harry’s forgotten a lot of things.  He’s forgotten what the stars look like.  He’s forgotten what his hair looks like.  He’s forgotten what milk tastes like.  He’s forgotten what  _snow_ is like and he’s forgotten what  _rain_ is like, and on most days, because of the side effects of the chemotherapy, he forgets what he had for breakfast.  

But he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the day he met Louis.  He was a little sprout of a boy, and even though he was six and Harry was four, he was still smaller than him, and Harry liked it.  The first time Harry saw him, he was waddling around the gift shop, greedy little hands touching and grabbing everything he could reach, and sometimes when he stood on his toes, his shirt rode up past his middle and Harry could see a little scar on his tummy that looked like the little squiggles of the ocean Harry sees in his picture books, and it was right next to his bellybutton.  Harry wanted to ask him about the little squiggly scar, but he always grew uncomfortable when other people asked him about the scars on his back and hands, so he didn’t.  He just stared, and he smiled when the boy jumped for a balloon and caught it in his fist, looking like he’d just conquered Mount Everest.  

“Darling, how about this one?” a grown-up lady was saying, handing a red balloon towards the boy, but the boy shook his head.  

“No, I like green.  Green is my favourite.”  And his voice was small and high, and it didn’t break or stutter like Harry’s did, and he just really liked it and thought that maybe he could listen to that voice all day.  The boy clutched the green string in his little fist, and his fingers were smaller and softer than Harry’s, and then he turned around and caught sight of Harry in his wheel chair, being pushed by his own mother, and he let the balloon bob to the ceiling with a bump.  

The boy had bright blue gauze wrapped around the crook of his arm and it looked just like the blue of Harry’s  _Thomas the Tank Engine_ toy, but all Harry could see was the colour of the boy’s eyes because  _sky_ is much nicer than  _paint._

When the boy’s blue eyes ran up and down Harry’s skinny legs and long arms and circled his bare head and traveled over the wheels of his chair, Harry blushed and waited for him to hide behind his mother’s skirt and whisper that he was afraid, but he didn’t.  The boy edged away from his mother and bounded eagerly over to Harry and his mum, lips parted.  

“Where’s your hair?” he asked bluntly, and his mother sighed slightly, sending Harry’s mum and apologetic glance, but Harry didn’t mind.  He wanted to impress the boy.  

“It disappeared,” he replied, and the boy blinked for a long moment before his cheeks split into a grin full of missing teeth and pink gums and he said, “Cool.” 

“Why do you have a squiggle on your tummy?” Harry asked, not so abashed anymore, and now it was  _his_ mother’s turn to blush and apologise, but the boy didn’t seem to mind.  

“I don’t have an apple-mix,” he said proudly, his chest puffing forward like a proud roosters—the kind Harry read about in his farm stories—and the boy’s mom corrected him with a small laugh.

“It’s  _appendix,_ darling,” she said, and Harry frowned at the new word. He knew lots of big words that most kids his age didn’t, like  _platelet_ and  _chemotherapy_ and  _bacteria,_ but he didn’t know this word, and the boy seemed to realise this as he smiled smugly.

“It’s a useless tubey-thingie in people’s tummies,” he explained smartly, sticking his little button-nose in the air.  “Yours is right there,” he added, and he extended his hand to jab Harry in the stomach.  As he did so, each of the mother’s gasped, and Harry’s eyes widened with apprehension, because it  _hurt_ when people poked him, and he didn’t  _want_ to hurt, and he braced himself for the pain to come as the boy’s finger came closer, but when it did, Harry blinked.  The boy just tapped him, his finger soft and gentle as it brushed over the fabric of Harry’s hospital gown, and Harry didn’t think those blue eyes had ever looked so soft.  And suddenly, he was just really  _happy,_ because for once, his body had something that another’s  _didn’t._

“Right here?” he asked in wonder, eyes round as he crouched over his own torso and pointed to the low spot of his belly, and the boy nodded.  

“Mine’s all gone.  I had a surgery and needles and shots and everything, and I’m really brave.  My mum  _said_ so,” he added defensively, as if to emphasize the point, and Harry gaped, because  _wow,_ the boy really  _was_ brave.  

“Why do you have squigglies on your chest?” the boy asked, cocking his head curiously as he let his fingertips trail from Harry’s belly to his collarbone, and Harry’s mum watched cautiously as Louis tapped gently on the white scars just over Harry’s heart.  

“That’s where my central venous catheter goes,” Harry mumbled, lowering his eyes because needing a catheter is nothing to be proud of, and he needed the boy to  _know_ this.  

Immediately the boy spun on the spot, piping up energetically and hollering, “Mum, what’s a central venous catheter?”

“It’s a tube that goes in people’s chests so they can get medicine for their hearts,” his mum explained, sending wary glances towards Harry’s mum, as if asking for her permission to inform the boy.  

“Your heart’s sick?” the boy asked, suddenly falling silent as he turned to eye Harry, and his blue eyes looked softer than clouds again.  

“Kind of,” Harry shrugged, wincing as his sore muscles were tugged.  

“Oh,” the boy breathed, and his eyes flickered back and forth between Harry and his green balloon.  Finally, he sighed and, with what looked like an enormous effort, slid the green ribbon into Harry’s brittle hand.

“You can have it,” he said quietly.  

“Oh, no,” Harry shook his head frantically, because he was tired of always getting presents from people who felt bad for him, and he just wants to  _earn_ something for a change, but then the boy was saying, “Please?  You should have it.  It looks like your eyes.”  And then Harry was smiling and his face was shining because no one’s ever noticed anything about him that wasn’t his disease, and he didn’t think anything had ever felt so wonderful.  So he only grinned when the boy gave him a gummy smile and a soft pat on the shoulder with his soft hand and blinked with his soft blue eyes, and as the boy skipped out of the shop with his mum, he found himself wishing he’d learned the boy’s name.

He would learn it two days later in the pediatric intensive care unit’s waiting room, when he asked Harry if he could sign one of his bandages, and Harry would spend the rest of the day repeating the name  _Louis_ over and over again in his head and wondering what the stars sounded like. 

 

❡❡❡

 

Harry’s nervous.  He’s really nervous.  For the first time, someone other than his family and Louis are visiting him in the hospital.  His neighbor Kayla, who lives in the red house down the street from the Styles’, is coming with her daddy.  Harry’s not sure why.  He hasn’t played with Kayla since he was four; since he met Louis in the gift shop.  He hasn’t played with  _anyone_ since, really, because he doesn’t need anybody but Louis.  Louis’s a great playmate.  He has Power Rangers and feathery hair and blue eyes, and he holds his hand when the nurses put needles in him.  He doesn’t need anybody else, and he’s certain that nobody else needs him. 

So, he’s nervous—scratch that, he’s terrified.  Sometimes, people don’t like Harry like Louis does.  Sometimes, they get scared of all the buttons and tubes and needles, and they get scared of Harry’s little wrists and pale skin and bare head.  Harry doesn’t like scaring people; he doesn’t want to scare anybody.  He just wants to make friends, but when he hasn’t been to nursery school since he was three and when he’s surrounded by scary noises and pointy tools, it’s hard.  So yeah, he’s a little terrified. 

He’d hold Louis’s hand if he could, but Louis’s playing football at the park and he won’t be here for another hour.  So, he settles for lacing his fingers through Gemma’s while he waits for Kayla and her daddy to arrive.  Kayla probably wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for Harry’s therapist.  He likes Louis, but he tells Anne that he thinks Harry should have more friends.  Harry couldn’t disagree more. He doesn’t need more friends, he just needs his Louis.  Anne likes Louis too—she likes him a lot—but she still invited Kayla and her daddy over, because she knows that Kayla and Harry used to play Legos and watch  _Rosie and Jim_ on television every day.  But Harry really wishes she hadn’t, because he really liked Kayla and didn’t want to scare her, and like he said, Louis is the only friend he needs.  

But Anne still opens the door when they hear a knock, and she still smiles when a little girl Harry’s age shuffles nervously into the room in front of her daddy.  She’s grown very pretty, Harry notices, kind of like the princesses he sees in Gemma’s books and like the dolls sitting on her shelf.  She has blonde hair the colour of the sun and warm brown eyes that are really big and look like chocolate.  She has nice bows in her hair with hearts all over them.  But there are no blue eyes, there’s no feathery hair, there are no freckles, and those are things Harry thinks are the prettiest.  So he hides behind Gemma and Kayla hides behind her daddy. Anne is smiling and nodding, leading Kayla to the big, comfy visitors’ chair that has only ever been sat in by Louis, and it feels a little weird when Kayla sits in the same spot, but Harry ignores it because his mum taught him to be polite.  

“This is for you,” Kayla whispers, her big brown eyes moving from Harry’s I.V. pole to the heart monitor beeping on his left, and then she sets a little gift bag with red and white stripes running across the sides into his lap.  Harry honestly wants to cry because he hates receiving gifts because of his disease, and why don’t other kids get so many gifts?  But he doesn’t want to hurt Kayla’s feelings, because he likes Kayla and Kayla is nice so he thanks her and tugs the tissue paper from the bag with his long fingers. 

When he find a little toy train with flashing lights inside, he’s really excited, because trains are his absolute  _favourite,_ and he smiles as he runs the train over the sheets of his hospital bed and makes chugging noises with his teeth.  Kayla grins, because they used to play these kinds of games before Harry became sick, and to Harry’s delight she removes a little doll from her coat pocket and they start to play train adventure together, like they did when they were younger. 

And Harry has fun and he likes to play with Kayla, but Kayla doesn’t do the train noises as well as Louis does, and Kayla doesn’t make the doll grow tentacles out of her chest and she doesn’t give her laser vision, and she doesn’t let Harry save the day when the doll almost falls off of the train, and it’s just not as great.  

An hour later, when he hears Louis’s signature knock upon the hospital door, his face lights up and he crawls off of the floor and to the door as quickly as he can, and he hopes Louis doesn’t get upset when Harry takes so long, but he also knows that Louis will understand.  Louis’s grinning when Harry opens the door, and he’s got a smudge of dirt on the tip of his nose and a bruise on his cheek from football. 

He bounds into the room, careful not to bump into Harry, but he freezes when he sees Kayla on the floor with her doll and with Harry’s new train, and for a moment Louis’s really confused because he doesn’t know Kayla and he doesn’t know this train, and he knows  _all_ of Harry’s toys, but then his eyebrows scrunch and his lips turn into a pout that looks like the bow on Harry’s gift bag, and Harry can see that Louis’s mad and about to throw a tantrum.  

“Who are you?” he asks, and his not using what Jay calls his “nice voice,” and Anne is sighing and Jay is looking stern, but Louis can’t care less right now, because who has been playing with Harry that isn’t  _him?_

“I’m Kayla,” Kayla says, frowning and pushing her lower lip forward in a pout just like Louis’s, but her lips aren’t red like Louis’s and they don’t look like a bow.  

“Why are you playing with Harry?” Louis demands, hands planted on his hips and face scrunched, and Kayla looks mad too and Harry’s just worried because he doesn’t like it when people fight, and he really doesn’t like it when Louis’s upset.  

“He’s my friend,” Kayla defends herself, rising to her feet and clutching her doll in her hand as she glares at Louis, and Louis’s eyes nearly pop out of his head.

“ _I’m_ Harry’s friend!” He insists, and he shuffles across the floor to stand in front of Harry as if guarding him, although Harry can’t see why because Kayla is nice.

“Louis, we’ve talked about this.  Harry can have more than one friend.” Jay scolds, taking Louis’s arm and pulling him to her side, and Louis looks like he is about to have an absolute fit, because  _since when?_

“Yes, but he is  _mine!_ He is  _my_ Harry,” Louis hollers, stomping his feet, and Jay needs to take him to a quiet room to calm down for a minutes, and Kayla’s daddy is saying that they need to get going anyways, and Harry is all alone with Anne and Gemma and his new train, but he hopes that Louis will be back soon and then they can be  _Harry and Louis_ again. 

When Louis does come back, his eyes are red and his nose is runny and he won’t look at his mum but then he sees Harry and he smiles a watery smile before running towards his bedside, and then he makes the train noises just right and he has tentacles growing out of the chest of the Power Ranger he brought along, and he even lets Harry save the day when the Power Ranger almost falls off of the train.

And Harry thinks that he only needs Louis.

 

❡❡❡

 

One year later, Louis is still small and soft, but his blue eyes are sharper and his hands are stronger, and this year he has the brand new white Power Ranger because Harry and Anne thought it would make a good birthday present.  Harry is still skinny and pale, but his limbs have grown and he’s almost as tall as Louis now, and this year Harry’s sixth birthday present is a bone marrow transplant. 

He’s sitting in his hospital room and watching as Louis draws a silly face on the last of the green and blue balloons, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he scribbles a little nose onto the green material, and Harry’s smiling just a little bit.  Gemma asks why they don’t have any pink or red balloons, and Louis explains that he only likes the green ones, and Harry explains that he only likes the blue ones, and maybe Gemma would throw a fit otherwise, but it’s Harry’s birthday and he’s already nervous about his surgery.  

“Look, Haz, it’s a Spider-Man balloon,” Louis declares proudly as he points towards one of the balloons bobbing against the ceiling, and Harry cranes his neck to see a blob of ink scribbled across the surface—a blob that he supposes is supposed to be a spider.  Louis’s still not very good at drawing yet, but Harry likes to help him and tell him that he’s great anyway.  This time, Harry can’t bring himself to do so, because the corners of his mouth just feel too heavy and the butterflies in his tummy are making him feel sick to his stomach.  

“Hazza?  You okay?” Louis peeps, his head bobbing over Harry’s, and he crawls onto Harry’s bed.  

“I’m fine,” Harry says quietly, but Louis sees right through it, because Louis’s always seen right through Harry.  So, he simply purses his lips and winds his fingers through Harry’s like he always does when Harry’s afraid of getting needles or pills or X-Rays.  

“Just think,” Louis says excitedly, and Harry knows he is trying to cheer him up.  “In just a couple of hours, you’ll have new stuff in your bones, and you’ll get better again.  Right, Miss Anne?” He asks, turning to blink expectantly up at Harry’s mum.  Anne smiles sadly, shrugging her shoulders.  

“We don’t know, Louis.  Hopefully.” Louis frowns, his eyebrows scrunching like a caterpillar.

“But if this doesn’t make him better, what will?” he demands, as if this were a simple question like asking which way is left and which is right.  Apparently Anne doesn’t know how to answer, because she doesn’t.  She just exchanges a sad glance with Jay, and Louis gets distracted when Harry begins to cry.

“Hey, it’s okay.  It’ll be okay, Haz,” he says, his voice unusually quiet as he takes his hand from Harry’s and drapes his arm over his friend’s back like a blanket, and Harry flinches for a moment because he’s afraid Louis’s arm will hurt him, but Louis’s always known how to handle Harry and of  _course_ he doesn’t hurt him.  Harry hides his face in his hands and leans into Louis’s side, tucking his head into his friend’s chest because he doesn’t want anybody else to see him cry.  Crying is for babies, and Harry isn’t a baby. 

Louis’s hand rubs up and down Harry’s back and it feels really nice, and Harry just cries and he’s probably getting Louis’s favourite shirt wet, but Louis doesn’t say anything.  He just pats Harry’s back and runs his thumb up and down Harry’s cheek, and when the nurse comes in to put another needle in Harry’s arm to make him go to sleep before the surgery, Louis doesn’t let go of Harry’s hand. 

Louis presses a kiss to Harry’s forehead, because that’s what his mum does for him when he’s upset, and he gives Harry’s hand another squeeze before the nurse wheels him out of his room and towards the operation theater.  As Harry watches Louis’s face vanish behind the door, he dismally wishes that he’d gotten the Power Ranger for his birthday instead.  

 

❡❡❡

 

When Harry is six and a half years old, he is playing with Louis in the waiting room.  He’s not feeling very well, but today is the only day that Louis is able to visit, because he’s going to his nan’s in the morning.  So, he’s not going to waste the opportunity. 

“ _Neeeeeeer_ ,” Louis says, making an airplane noise as he drives a toy plane through the air.  “Harry, look out, Peter Plane is about to crash!”  

“Oh, no!” Harry grins, voice quiet and faint as he yanks his Lego out of the way.  

“Harry, save him!” Louis pipes, and Harry smiles as he uses his Lego man’s superpowers to fly up to the airplane, and when he directs the plane safely to the carpet, Louis cheers, claiming Harry is a hero.  

This is why he likes playing with Louis.  In reality, Harry can’t run or jump or fly.  He can’t pick up anything heavy without hurting his wrists, and if he moves too fast when he goes from his hospital bed to the door, he can fall and hurt himself.  But when he’s with Louis, he can fly and become invisible and jump across the sky.  He can travel at the speed of light and he can change the world with the snap of his fingers.  When he’s with Louis, nothing can stop him.  

He winces as his chest tightens with pain once more, and he sets his Lego down and tells Louis he needs to go to the bathroom.  Louis tries to come with him.  He knows that Harry sometimes needs help, and he’s not shy, because he and Harry don’t have any secrets or boundaries; they’re best friends and best friends are supposed to help each other.  Also, sometimes he worries about Harry, and if something ever happened to Harry and Louis wasn’t there, he doesn’t think he’d be able to forgive himself. 

But Harry’s not feeling well, and he just wants to use the bathroom by himself, so he bats Louis away and toddles off to the toilet in his hospital room.  

He’s really proud of himself for managing on his own, but when he steps towards the sink to wash his hands, he realises that he’s forgotten he’s not quite tall enough to reach the faucet.  Eyebrows furrowed with frustration, he groans and stands on his highest tippy-toes, because he  _knows_ he can reach it, he just needs to stretch a little bit further….

Suddenly, he’s falling, and it’s not the kind of falling he feels when he’s on the swing set or going down the slide in the hospital playground.  It’s the scary kind of falling; the kind of falling that wakes him up when he’s dreaming, or the kind of falling that he feels when he misses a step on the stairs and his stomach swoops.  This time, however, he falls a lot longer.  He falls all the way to the tile, and he’s not sure when he stops falling because the next thing he knows, the world is black and fuzzy and everything just  _hurts._  Then, he’s sleeping.

He wakes up to the sound of crying, and it makes him feel sad at once because he  _knows_ that voice and he  _knows_ those tears, and all he wants to do is wrap Louis up in his arms like Louis always does for Harry when Harry is upset.  But he can’t move, and his fingers feel like they weigh a thousand pounds when he wriggles them, and when he tries to lift his head it feels like trying to lift his wheelchair.  He tries to talk, to let Louis know that everything’s all right, but when he opens his mouth his throat feels like sandpaper, and he just feels so powerless because he can’t do  _anything._

Finally, after what feels like days and days of listening to Louis cry, something cold and ticklish stings the crook of his arm, and he knows that something is being injected into his veins.  Then, what feels like days and days afterwards, he can finally wriggle his fingers and toes and lift his neck, and he opens his eyes to see a head of feathery hair and puffy blue eyes that are rimmed with red, and his heart drops like a rock in his chest.  

“Lou?” he croaks, and he winces because his voice sounds like a frog’s, but then Louis looks up at him a little smile lines his lips, and suddenly everything is all better again.  

“Harry, you’re okay?” Louis gasps, and Harry can only nod, because he’s  _not_ okay but he doesn’t want Louis to be sad anymore.  He just wants to hug Louis and he wants Louis to hug him back.  

“Please don’t cry, Louis,” he whimpers, and Louis sniffles.  “I don’t like to see you cry.”

“It’s all my fault.  This is all my fault.  I should have come with you to the bathroom.” Louis sobs, and Harry’s heart shatters a little because of _course_ it’s not Louis’s fault, and how could Louis think that?  

“No, Louis,” he rasps.  “No, it was my fault, it’s okay.  Just don’t cry, Louis, please?”  Louis’s eyes are still leaking and his lip is still trembling, but he sniffles and wipes the back of his hand across his cheeks before crawling carefully onto Harry’s hospital bed, not daring to touch him in case he hurt him.  

“What happened in the bathroom?” Harry asks, and Louis’s arm shakes as he slides it over Harry’s shoulders.  

“I dunno,” he shrugs, sniffling and dabbing at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve.  “The nurse came in and saw you on the floor with your eyes closed, and there was blood everywhere, and it was coming from your head, and…and…”

“It’s okay, Louis, I’m okay,” Harry says quietly, and his head gives a painful throb as he hears Louis’s story.  He guesses that’s why he passed out.  

“I’m sorry, Harry,” Louis snivels, burying his face in Harry’s hospital gown and sighing.  “I should have come with you.  I didn’t keep you safe.”

“No, Louis, please don’t blame yourself, it’s okay.” Harry assures him.  He doesn’t what happened because of whom; he just needs Louis to be happy again.  When Louis’s sad, Harry’s sad.  Louis only sighs, his breath shaky and rocky, and weaves his little fingers through Harry’s.  Harry winces when Louis clutches his hand tight, but he doesn’t mind. 

He isn’t sure how long the two of them lie there, Harry’s head pounding and Louis’s nose snuffling, but Harry’s drowsy and content when the nurse finally opens the door and walks to Harry’s bedside.  When she tells Louis that he needs to leave because Harry’s going to get X-Rays, Louis only grips Harry’s hand tighter and shakes his head.

“If I leave,” he blubbers, “He might not come back to me.”

Harry will never forget the watery smile of relief on Louis’s face when the blue-eyed boy runs into Harry’s arms half an hour later, sobbing that he’s glad Harry’s still here.

 

❡❡❡

 

The next time Harry’s birthday rolls around, he’s getting a much better present. His doctor has announced that the leukaemic cells in Harry’s bone marrow have been wiped out and that his platelet count is up to two hundred thousand.  It’s inconsistent, and it’s definitely not as high as it could be, but it’s good enough for Harry, and apparently it’s good enough for the doctor too. 

Just as Harry is blowing the flame from a candle sticking out of a bowl of decontaminated hospital pudding, the nurse strolls in and detaches the chemotherapy drip from Harry’s catheter for what she promises will be the last time, and even though Harry got a new train and a chapter book and pair of really cool shoes that light up when he walks for his birthday, he thinks that this is the best present he’s ever gotten in his whole life—that is, until Louis tucks him into his chest and plants a delighted kiss on his cheek a moment later.

 

❡❡❡

 

Harry’s standing in his own bathroom for the first time in what feels like years when he first notices— _really_ notices—the reappearance of his hair. 

He’s brushing his teeth, running the bristles in small circles like his mum told him, and humming a song he heard from a television advertisement when he looks in the mirror and realises that a smooth layer of fuzz the colour of his neighbour Kayla’s eyes has begun to cover his head.  It’s the first time Harry’s seen hair on his own body in four years, and he’s so excited that his shrieks have his mum running for the bathroom, worried that he had fallen or even worse, relapsed. 

When Harry shows her his new head of fuzz, she starts to cry, and when he asks why she’s crying, she just tells him she’s really happy.  Harry doesn’t understand; he’s never heard of someone crying when they’re happy, but he smiles anyway because he knows she’s proud of him. 

He runs his hand over the fuzz on his head, and it looks kind of sharp and rough in the mirror, but under his palm it’s very soft, like the fleece blanket Louis gave him last Christmas.  He considers calling Louis, but he wants to surprise him when the hair is more noticeable, so he curls up with that fleecy blanket and watches a movie with Gemma and Anne on the sofa, just because he’s home now and because he  _can._

One month later, when the fuzz on Harry’s head is much thicker and is beginning to coil into soft curls he hasn’t seen in a long time, he finally feels ready to show Louis what he’s been hiding for so long. 

He’s very agitated as he bounces around the kitchen, avoiding counter corners and sharp doorknobs in case he hurt himself, because  _dear Lord,_ it’s been four and a half weeks since he last saw his best friend and when Harry’s away from Louis too long, he begins to lose it.  He’s not used to going a couple days without seeing the boy with the blue eyes, let alone thirty-two, but Louis spent two weeks in London with his Auntie Rita, and even when he returned, Harry was still trying to grow out his hair.  His mum and sister kept telling him he was silly; that waiting a couple of weeks wasn’t going to make any difference, but it made a difference to Harry, and he was sure it would make a difference to Louis too. 

So, on the fifth of March, Harry tugs one of his old beanies over his head, but it feels different because now there’s something between his head and the hat, and it’s very weird but it’s also very wonderful and Harry knows Louis will think so as well.  When he waddles over to the Tomlinsons’ house, however, his hand clutched tight in his mother’s, Louis doesn’t greet him at the door, and Jay has to lead them up to Louis’s room herself, even though Harry knows the way. 

“Louis?” He asks curiously, because Louis has never ignored Harry at the door before and something must be wrong.  He hears a very weird sound from Louis’s bed, and when he sees Louis huddled upon the Power Rangers blankets and his shoulders shaking, Harry realises that Louis’s crying.  

“Louis, what’s wrong?  Are you happy or sad?” he asks frantically, because now that he’s seen his mum cry when she’s happy he just can’t be sure anymore.  When Louis looks up, his mouth turning down at the corners like rain on a window, Harry knows he must be crying because he’s sad.  

“Harry?” Louis asks, as if he can’t quite believe he’s there, and Harry nods.  To his surprise, Louis only buries his face in his knees and turns away, like Gemma does when Harry accidentally breaks the arm off one of her dolls.  “I haven’t seen you in one whole month.” Louis whimpers.  “I thought you hated me!”

Harry gasps, eyes wide, because  _hate_ is a strong word that Harry isn’t allowed to use, and how could Louis ever think that Harry hated him?  

“Louis!” he exclaims, jaw dropping.  “I couldn’t ever…. _hate_ you.  You’re my best friend.”

“Then why didn’t you want to see me?” Louis asks, his lip trembling and his cheeks slick with tears as he turned to look up at Harry.  

“Because I wanted to show you something,” Harry says, a slow smile finding his mouth, because he’s about to show Louis his hair and  _goodness,_ he’s so excited.  “It wasn’t ready…Until now.  Look, Louis.”  And he lifts his hands to tug the beanie off of his head, and when he does, Louis nearly falls off of the bed.

“Harry…” he breaths, eyes wider than dinner plates as he gapes at Harry’s new head of soft, thin curls, and he can’t quite figure out how to close his mouth because he’s never seen Harry’s hair before, and  _oh goodness…_

“Is…Is that your  _hair?_ ” Louis whispers, and Harry can only nod and grin—he’s grinning so widely that his jaw is beginning to hurt and he can barely see over his rounded cheeks—and then Louis extends his hand, and his fingers are shaking, but Harry doesn’t care.  He leans forward a little bit so Louis can reach him, and then he feels soft, gentle fingers running over the brown curls covering his scalp, and when he looks up, Louis’s eyes are watering again.  

“Harry, come here,” he says quietly.  Harry’s worried that Louis’s upset, but then Louis’s folding him into his chest like his mum does when he’s sad.  It feels different, though, from when his mum hugs him.  Louis’s hugs always feel different.  Louis is small and soft and careful and warm and nice, and no one else will ever be like him. 

When Harry feels something hot and wet on his shoulder, he realises that Louis is crying, and Harry’s suddenly scared because he doesn’t like it when Louis’s sad.  When he asks, though, Louis only wipes his eyes, smiles, and tells Harry that this time, he’s crying because he’s happy.  

 

❡❡❡

 

Because Harry is in remission and the cancer isn’t in his cells anymore, he’s allowed to go to regular school with all the other boys and girls.  Part of him is excited, but a bigger part of him is terrified, because he’s never been to regular school with other kids before, and what if they don’t like him?  He feels better, though, when Louis promises to walk to school with him and that they can eat lunch together every day. 

He still has butterflies in his tummy when his mum slides him into his blue coat and gives him his lunch pail, and he holds Louis’s hand extra tightly as they start down the street.  He tells Louis how scared he is, and Louis hugs him and tells him he understands, and that Harry will be just fine and that his teacher will love him, because Louis told her all about him when  _he_  was in year two. 

It’s not as bad as Harry expected.  His teacher really is nice, and she’s just as excited about Harry’s new hair, which is now as thick and lush as any other boy’s, as he is.  He gets to see Louis at morning break and afternoon break, and they eat lunch together just like Louis promised.  Some of Louis’s friends ask if they want to come sit with them, but Louis tells them that it’s Harry’s first day and that they want to spend it on their own, and Harry’s never felt so special before.

 

❡❡❡

 

When the first February of the school year arrives, Harry spends his eighth birthday with his mum, his sister, and Louis’s family.  

He really likes Jay, because Jay’s nice and she lets him have Oreos with apple juice, because he still doesn’t drink milk.  He likes Lottie because Lottie likes to play dolls with him, and she lets Harry’s doll have superpowers and save her from monsters.  He likes Fizzy because she has a funny name that sounds like the soda he gets to drink on weekends, and because she’s loud and clever and wild and she can make any situation really interesting.  He hasn’t met Louis’s twin sisters yet because they’re still in Jay’s tummy, but he’ll meet them soon and he’s sure he’ll like them too.  He likes Louis because…well, because Louis is Louis, and Harry is Harry, and therefore he just  _does._

Anne and Gemma give Harry new pyjamas and a cool toy that flashes and makes funny noises.  Jay and the girls give Harry a new lunch pail because the handle fell off of his old one.  Louis saved up all his pocket money and bought his own present for Harry, and when Harry sees the juggling kit in the gift bag, he doesn’t think he’s ever been so thrilled because Louis knows he’s always wanted to learn how to juggle.  

At school, everyone is talking about a different party, and for the first time Harry’s hearing of cards and crushes and valentines.  All the boys want to make really pretty and frilly valentines for the girls, and all the girls really want to receive pretty and frilly valentines from the boys, but Harry is just very confused, because why can’t the boys give each other nice valentines, and why can’t the girls get nice valentines from the other girls?  

When he asks his teacher what a valentine is, she tells him that it’s a nice present for someone very special, and that maybe Harry would like to give a valentine to someone that is special to him.  Harry only nods and smiles, because he can only think of one very special person in his life.  

When he goes home that day, he’s bouncing with energy and his head is spinning with thoughts of nice handwriting and cheesy phrases and robot stickers, and he tells his mum that he needs to go shopping for craft supplies, because Louis’s valentine needs to be perfect.  

When he finally finishes on the night of the thirteenth, his script is messy and smudged and he’s had to cross words out a few times, and the stickers are lop-sided and globs of glue hang off the ends, but apparently it’s okay because when Louis receives it the next day, he looks like Harry has just poured the world into the palms of his hands rather than an inadequate card. 

He doesn’t thank Harry.  He just looks at the card for a long moment, plucks the dangling bit of blue from the paper, and folds Harry against his chest for a very long time, and he doesn’t let go until the playground supervisor tells them that morning break is over and that they need to go back to their classrooms.  

When Harry meets Louis for lunch, Louis has a surprise for him too.  He’s more excited than he’s ever looked in his life, and he can barely sit still as Harry opens the envelope that he gives him.  Inside, he finds a fancy card that makes music when he opens it, and that’s cool because he’s  _always_ wanted one of those.  It’s signed “Louis” in big, sloppy letters, and the S is backwards, but that doesn’t matter to Harry.  He also finds a little lollipop inside that’s cherry-flavoured and shaped like a heart, and Harry’s own heart melts a little bit when Louis sadly apologizes for giving him a red heart instead of a blue one because he knows blue is Harry’s favourite.  Harry doesn’t care, though, because for once, red is his favourite colour in that moment.  

When he goes back to class after lunch, he shows his teacher his valentine and all the boys tease him about getting a card from a smitten girl, but when he shows them the signature, they fall silent, and no one quite knows what to say.  Harry knows it’s because they all wish they had a friend as great as Louis.  When Harry and Louis walk home, hand in hand as usual, Louis gives Harry’s fingers an extra squeeze, and Harry thinks that Valentine’s Day is his new favourite holiday.

 

❡❡❡

 

When Louis turns twelve, he begins secondary school, and Harry would be excited for him, but that means he’ll be leaving Harry behind at primary school.  Harry’s downright terrified, because now, who will he spend lunch and breaks with, and who will walk him to school every day? 

Over the time he’s occupied at school, he hasn’t really bothered to make any friends other than Louis.  But his old neighbour, Kayla, is still in his class, so he decides that maybe he’ll try to be friends with her.  He hasn’t talked to her in a long while, but hopefully she’ll be interested in spending time together again.  

To his relief, when he timidly approaches her and her friends under the swing set during morning break, she smiles and invites him into their game of chase.  Harry doesn’t have as much fun as he does when he’s with Louis, but he’s still happy, and when he meets Louis at the curb of his street after school, the two of them talk about their days, and how much they wish the other were there during school.  

Louis tells Harry about the new boy on his football team, Liam, and he tells him about the dark, quiet boy who always lurks in the corner during gym class named Zayn.  Harry’s happy for Louis, glad that he’s making new friends, but part of him feels just a little bit sad that he’s not the only person in Louis’s life anymore.  Still, Louis holds his hand as usual when they lay outside in the green grass, and Harry smiles just a little bit when Louis complains that neither Zayn nor Liam have curly hair.  

When Louis asks about Harry’s day, Harry confesses how afraid he was when he had to cross the streets by himself on the way to school, and Louis give him a small smile and his hand an extra squeeze.  

But then Harry tells him about Kayla, and suddenly Louis isn’t smiling anymore.

 

❡❡❡

 

Harry returns from a doctor’s appointment with a smile on his face and with the knowledge that his bones and muscles have regained their strength and are almost as healthy as any other boy’s.  He’s very excited that he’s becoming just like everyone else again, but not nearly as excited as Louis.  

Within the hour, Harry’s sitting cross-legged in Louis’s back yard with Louis and Liam, and Louis’s showing Harry what a pass is, and Liam is teaching him how to juggle the football.  And in all honesty, Harry just might be the worst football player to ever walk the earth, but when he finally manages to whack the ball right between Liam’s legs, Louis’s face lights up like the sun, and before Harry knows it he’s being tackles by a pair of soft, warm arms the colour of caramel and Louis is murmuring praise in his ear.   

He’s not nearly good enough to try out for the local youth team, but he still likes to go to Louis’s and Liam’s games with Gemma, and Louis even lets him wear his spare jersey while Harry cheers from the sidelines.  

Harry likes wearing Louis’s jersey; it’s big and roomy and the fabric is a little bit shiny, and on the back is a big number seventeen underneath the word  _Tomlinson._ Louis seems to like it when Harry wears his jersey too, because when he sees his younger friend hidden inside the wide sleeves, he smiles, and sometimes he misses a pass from one of his teammates and his coach gets angry, but Louis doesn’t seem to mind.  

 

❡❡❡

 

When Harry begins secondary school two years later, he’s thrilled, because he’ll be back with Louis again and he’s made a lot more friends now.  He still has fun with Kayla, though, and sometimes she comes over to his house after school to help him with his maths.  Recently, some of the kids at school have been teasing him and Kayla, but Harry can’t figure out why, so he just ignores it.  

He’s also made friends with a funny Irish boy who moved to town a couple of months ago.  His name is Niall, and he’s got ridiculous hair.  Harry likes Niall because he’s very loud and he just seems to be impossibly happy all of the time, and it’s nice to have a friend like that.  He’s no Louis, but Harry still likes to spend time with him, because Niall’s good at football too and sometimes he helps Harry with his juggling.  

Year seven passes as quickly as any other, and just as his thirteenth birthday is disappearing in his rearview window, he notices that he’s starting to change.  He’s a little bit taller, and his body is more muscle than soft puppy fat.  His face isn’t round and pudgy; it’s sharper and squarer, and suddenly he’s got a long, crooked nose to worry aoubt.  His voice is a little bit deeper and little bit raspier.  Harry thinks it sounds weird, and it  _must,_ because whenever Louis hears it, his cheeks turn red and he looks down at his shoes.  

Soon enough, the inevitable occurs, and his mum is sitting him down to have  _the talk._ Harry groans, because he’s heard other kids in his year talking about  _the talk,_ and he’s been dreading the moment when he would finally receive his  _talk._ Still, he’s curious, and when his mum begins to talk about  _special feelings_ between girls and boys, he only becomes confused.  

“Do you ever get nervous around the other girls, Harry?” his mum is asking him sharply, trying to sound casual, but Harry is seeing right through the façade.  “Or around one girl in particular?” she adds, and Harry’s eyebrows only furrow, because  _what on earth is she talking about?_

“Nervous?” he repeats, nose wrinkling.  “Like, when I get a shot?”

“No, love,” she sighs.  “Like, do you ever get excited, or anxious?  Do you ever get butterflies in your stomach, or do your cheeks ever get warm?”

 _Of course,_ Harry wants to say, because his tummy has gotten butterflies a thousand times before, and his cheeks get warm a lot.  Somehow, he doesn’t think his mother will want to hear this, though.

“Yeah,” he shrugs, his voice sounding suddenly small.  “But not around girls.”

His mum ends it at that, and he slinks into his room to start on his homework.  When Louis calls an hour later, he squirms with guilt, because the butterflies are back.

 

❡❡❡

 

At the beginning of the summer, Niall announces that he is going on a road trip to Southend-on-Sea with his brother Greg and invites Harry to come along.  Harry is quiet, because he’s never been anywhere out of town without his family before, and he’s nervous.  When Niall asks him if he wants to bring along Louis, any doubts vanish, and Harry agrees wholeheartedly.   

When the time comes to take off, the three boys can’t stop bouncing with excitement, and they’re giggling and shouting all the way to the coast, to Greg’s annoyance.  They set up camp on the beach—or rather, Greg sets up camp while Harry, Niall, and Louis play in the surf—and arrange a bonfire, and Harry’s really excited because he’s never experienced a bonfire before.  

They spend the entire night roasting marshmallow and sausages, and hollering their favourite songs at the tops of their lungs as they toss branches and logs into the fire.  When Harry hears Louis crooning a quiet song under his breath, he just falls silent and listens, because he thinks that maybe has the most beautiful voice he’s ever heard.  When Louis catches him listening, he turns red and goes quiet, but Harry only smiles and asks him to sing another song.  

Later that night, when the snores of Greg and Niall are filling the tent like smoke, Louis prods Harry’s shoulder and beckons him out into the night.  Louis doesn’t speak as he grabs Harry’s hand and tugs him towards the dry beach, and the two of them are silent as they lie down in the sand and gaze up at the dark sky.  

What Harry sees is beyond words, because before him is a breath-taking array of twinkling lights that glimmer and shine, and he thinks,  _oh, stars._

It’s the first time he’s seen the stars properly in his entire life, because out here on the coast, there are no unnatural city lights to hide this beautiful view, and there is nothing to distract him from this incredible, wonderful moment; this moment he’s dreamed of for ten years.  As he blinks up at the veil of lights, looking down at him like proud guardians, he waits and he listens, because he still hasn’t found out what noises the stars make.  

When Louis begins to sing Harry to sleep a moment later, he finally discovers what the stars sound like.

 

❡❡❡

 

At the beginning of year ten, Kayla asks Harry to go out with her.  Well, Harry’s not quite sure what this means, but Kayla is his friend and he really likes her, so he agrees with a shrug and Kayla turns bright red and skips away with her friends, giggling all the while. Harry asks Gemma about the incident when he comes home and explains his confusion, but it doesn’t help when Gemma only stares at him for what feels like many uncomfortable hours before calling him a dolt and locking herself in her room.  

His face pinches in surprise when Kayla greets him at his locker the next morning with a very warm hug and an unexpected kiss on the cheek before she skips off to her first class, and really, Harry’s not sure what to make of it.  He’s always been a little clueless socially, but this is just  _strange,_ he thinks, so he shakes his head in bewilderment and slings his bag over his shoulder.  

A lot of things have changed, to Harry’s dismay, but he and Louis are still the best of friends and they still walk to and from school every day.  They don’t hold hands anymore, because it’s far too hot in the sweltering September heat, but Harry still feels kind of special every time their fingers brush, or every time Louis wraps his arm around Harry’s shoulders.  

He feels special and proud anytime he’s with Louis, and not just because Louis is the best and most wonderful person in the world.  Harry sees the way other people wish they were by Louis’s side instead; he sees the way boys narrow their eyes appreciatively and he sees the way girls sigh when he passes, because Louis’s grown even prettier and prettier over the years.

His soft, round baby face has grown sharp and slim, and like Harry, his short, soft limbs have become more muscular and defined.  His eyelashes are almost as long as Harry’s thumbnail now, and  _God,_ every time he glances at Harry with those blue eyes, Harry’s flustered and really just not sure of himself anymore.  

Louis’s not the only one who’s still changing.  One afternoon, when Louis goes to wind his arm around Harry’s neck as they start home, he realises that Harry is taller than him, and that he has to stand on his toes.  He only blushes and bites his lip before tucking his arm around Harry’s waist instead, because Harry’s waist is long and slender and strong, and Louis likes that. 

Harry thinks Louis is nice and warm too.  He likes how Louis is still small soft and snug, and he likes the way his middle seems to mold to Harry’s arm like two puzzle pieces slotting together.  When Kayla grabs his hand and tugs his arm around her own waist the next morning, Harry notices that she’s tight and skinny and firm, and he doesn’t think he likes it very much.  

Harry’s startled when, later that day, one of his classmates asks if he and Kayla are going to  _hit a home run_ , because even though he’s a little deprived socially, he  _knows_ what hitting a home run is, and why on earth would anyone  _think_ that?  When he confesses his confusion to Niall, he only laughs and pats Harry’s back sympathetically, and Harry wishes for what feels like the hundredth time that everyone would stop treating him like such a child.  

Louis doesn’t treat him like a child.  Yes, Louis is gentle and careful and protective, but he talks to Harry like Harry’s an adult, and he respects Harry and looks up to him.  Harry doesn’t think anyone is as great as Louis.  

 

❡❡❡

 

Harry and Louis have their first fight on October third, when Louis catches Harry holding hands with Kayla.  

Harry didn’t want to hold hands with her, and he’s  _still_ not sure why she would want to hold hands with him either, but he doesn’t want to be rude, so he’s quiet as she runs her thumb back and forth across his knuckles.  Her hand is nice, he supposes, but it’s thin and sharp and cool, and it’s not warm and soft and strong like others hands he knows.  So, he only stares at his feet as Kayla walks with him to his locker.  

Harry glances up to see Louis waiting for him, his rucksack hanging from one hand and a brand new pair of football cleats in the other that were meant just for Harry.  He stops, because Louis’s the only other person he’s ever held hands with, and what if he gets a little upset?  When Louis’s blue eyes widen as his face crumples, Harry seems to melt a little, and suddenly Louis’s gone, a pair of shiny new cleats left in his place.  

Louis doesn’t answer Harry’s phone calls.  He doesn’t answer Harry’s emails, he doesn’t answer Harry’s texts, and even when Harry asks Zayn to pass a message from him to Louis, Louis doesn’t acknowledge him.  

Harry’s never felt so sad or so alone, because he’s  _always_ had Louis, and now that he doesn’t, life kind of sucks.  He finally works up the last of his nerve and knocks timidly on the door of the Tomlinsons’ home one week later, because he cannot  _stand_ going for so long without having Louis.  

When Lottie greets him, she’s cold and resentful, and Harry cannot for the life of him figure out why because Lottie has always adored Harry.  Jay comes to the door, gives Harry a gentle hug, and tells him that maybe he should give Louis his space, and Harry is just  _impossibly_ confused, because why should something so simple as holding hands with Kayla make Louis so upset?  

He only nods, tears bubbling behind his eyes as he thanks Jay and stumbles back home.  

He ignores his mum when she tells him he’s looking a bit ill.

 

❡❡❡

 

Two weeks after Louis stopped talking to Harry, Harry stops coming to school.  

Louis is worried—he pretends he isn’t for the sake of his dignity, but he really is.  He isn’t about say anything, though, because he’s sure Harry is just fine, and that maybe he is off having some fun with  _Kayla._

He can’t stand that girl.  He can’t stand her silly bows and her shiny lipgloss, and she can’t stand the possessive glance she always sends towards Harry when they’re together.   He can’t stand  _Harry_ for allowing that silly girl to take Louis’s place, because Harry is  _his._ Or… _was_ his. 

He’s still furious with Harry, because best friends don’t keep secrets from each other, and best friends don’t go out with anyone that the other doesn’t approve of.  Then again, Louis’s not sure he would approve of  _anyone_ that Harry ever wanted to go out with.  

Finally, his jealousy and paranoia gets the better of him, and he approaches Niall with a bowed head and a reluctant scowl.  When he asks Niall if Harry and Kayla are really boyfriend and girlfriend, he’s answered by a long, dumfounded stare before Niall erupts into laughter, and he tells Louis everything.  When he finally hears Harry’s side from of the story from him, Louis doesn’t think he’s ever felt so terrible in his life.

When Louis scampers to the Styles’ home, a tin of Harry’s favourite pastries in his hands, he’s surprised when Gemma greets him at the door, rather than his best friend.

“Go on up,” is all she says with a jerk of her head, and Louis only nods before scurrying up the stairs to Harry’s little bedroom.  

“Haz?” he whispers as he slides through the door, tin cradled carefully against his chest.  “Haz, it’s me.  I want to apologise.  Are you here?”  

Louis hears a snuffle from Harry’s bed, and his eyes widen as he tiptoes towards the bed and sits carefully upon the mattress.  Harry is curled against the pillows, knees clutched to his chest and shoulders shaking as he sobs into his hands, and Louis’s heart melts a little in his chest, because if there’s one thing he can’t bear, it’s to see Harry so upset.  

“Harry, don’t cry,” he whispers, his voice catching in his throat as he lays a palm carefully upon Harry’s broad shoulders and traces soothing circles over his back.  “Haz, c’mon, it’ll be okay.  I’m so sorry I ignored you, Harry, it was such a mistake, and you didn’t deserve it.  I’m a right git.” 

He sighs, throat clenching as he lays his head in his own hands.  He can’t believe he’s hurt Harry like this; sweet, innocent Harry who would never hurt a fly… 

“Do you think you can forgive me, Haz?” Louis whispers, biting his lip with anticipation, because he doesn’t know  _what_ he’d ever do if Harry couldn’t forgive him.  “Please?” he breaths.  

When Harry only continues to sob, awful, ragged breaths falling from his lips and tearing Louis inside-out, Louis begins to grow worried.  He hesitates for a moment before gathering the weeping Harry into his arms, and even though Harry is longer and broader than he is, he’s still lighter, so Louis cradles him against his chest and murmurs soft tunes in his ear, because he knows that will calm Harry down better than anything.  

“Harry, love, what’s wrong?” he breaths, raising a finger and tipping Harry’s chin up and towards his face.  At first, he’s anxious that this is all Louis’s fault, that Louis caused Harry to hurt him like this, but then Harry opens his lips, and Louis learns something much, much worse.

“Louis,” Harry croaks, green eyes wide.  “It’s back.”

 

❡❡❡

 

Curled in the familiar hospital bed, Harry feels like he’s stuck in the middle of a surreal dream.  It’s like he’s reliving the moments of his childhood; his joints aching and his heart thudding a little too quickly in his chest as the drip standing beside him lets fluids leak into his veins through a sharp catheter plastered to the back of his hand. 

He didn’t think that he’d ever find himself in this position again.  He thought the cancer was gone for good, but he supposes that sometimes, life just doesn’t work out in the ways we expect.  

Harry sniffles as he wipes another humiliating tear from his raw cheeks.  He hasn’t stopped crying since he returned from the emergency room after passing out on his bedroom floor, and he has a feeling he won’t stop crying for quite some time.  

Harry isn’t the only one crying.  He knows that, somewhere in the hospital, Louis is waiting on a cold, hard bench, eyes red as well, and that hurts Harry more than any needles or any aches ever will.  

He wishes Louis were here.  He’s not quite sure why he’s in the hospital at all, because the last time he checked, Louis wasn’t speaking to him, but apparently every bad comes with a little good.  

Maybe this is some cruel trick of fate; some sort of exchange. Maybe winning Louis back came at the price of relapsing; of facing leukaemia once more.  

When Louis is finally let into Harry’s room and he wraps him up into his arms, he holds Harry close and cries quietly into the warm dip of his neck, and the only thing that crosses Harry’s mind is that it was a fair trade.

 

❡❡❡

 

Two months later, and Harry is becoming the frightened, naïve little boy with the pale skin and the skinny wrists that he once was.  

Everything is mockingly the same as he left it twelve years ago.  The same cheerful scrubs are worn by the same motherly nurses, the beds are draped in same white sheets, and the disease eats away at Harry just as it did when he was a child.  This time, though, it eats away at strong, healthy arms and legs that are sixteen years old, rather than the scrawny limbs of a toddler.  

This time, Harry knows he will always remember the things he is losing.  He’ll remember what snow looks like.  He’ll always remember the rain and the wind, and he’ll remember what his hair looks like.  This time around, he’ll never forget the stars, and that torments him more than anything.  

But he’s still got the music of the stars here with him.  He always will, and he’ll always know what the stars sound like because every time he cries and every time he sleeps, Louis is there singing to him and holding him more tightly than he ever has before, as if he’s worried Harry will slide right through his fingers and become another twinkling, shimmering blob of light against the sky.  

Louis sings when Harry’s afraid, he sings when Harry’s in pain, He sings when Harry’s tired, and he sings when Harry’s sad.  He sings through an ocean of tears when he walks through the door one day to see Harry holding a fistful of those soft, brown curls in his hand, eyes wide as if he can’t quite believe what’s happening.  He sings to Harry when Harry finally looks into the mirror and realises that there are no curls left to remember.  

He sings to Harry when Harry sobs into Louis’s chest, shoulders heaving and lip trembling, and tells him he just wants this all to be over.  

Not long after Harry falls asleep, curled in Louis’s arms with tears drying on his cheeks, Louis cries too.  

 

❡❡❡

 

Louis spends his eighteenth birthday in the emergency room waiting area. 

He knows it’s supposed to be a big day for him; becoming an adult and finally breaking into the world.  But it’s not.  The only significance of this day is the fact that he nearly lost Harry, and there’s nothing special about that at all. 

The tears have long since dried on Louis’s cheeks, causing his skin to grow sticky and raw, and he dabs at the corners of his eyes as he leans forward, resting his chin on his knees. 

He’s the only one here.  Anne is with Harry, somewhere, and Gemma is with her boyfriend, because they’re spending Christmas together and Anne hasn’t had the heart to break the new to her that Harry was injured.  It’s just Louis, waiting alone on the cold, hard bench. 

At least the suspense has vanished.  He knows Harry will be all right, that he’s not in any immediate danger.  He couldn’t be sure an hour ago, however, when he received a horrifying call from Anne after she found him unconscious and bleeding on the bathroom floor—just like Louis found Harry nine years ago.  Oh, the irony.  Just like last time, Louis was unable to help him.  He’s done crying—he doesn’t think he has any more tears left to shed.  All he can do is wait.  And he does.

When Anne finally greets him in the chilly waiting area, she’s not in much better shape than Louis.  Her eyes are both red and purple at once, raw from tears and scarlet from lack of sleep.  He pats her on the back, whispers reassurances in her ear, and tells her to go home and take a long rest; she needs it.  She’s reluctant at first, but Louis promises Harry will be all right in his hands, and she’s always trusted Louis with her son. 

When Louis finally wriggles through the door of Harry’s room, the lights are dimmed and everything is meticulously clean.  Louis doesn’t notice much else, though; he hurries to Harry’s bedside as quickly as his legs will carry him, and within the moment, they’re wrapped up in one another’s arms, Harry limp and sick and Louis exhausted and emotionally wrung. 

The soft fuzz of Harry’s favourite blue beanie nuzzles Louis’s skin, mocking him.  He feels Harry’s warm breath against his ear as he sighs contentedly, and while Louis traces gentle patterns across Harry’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, Harry mumbles something about stars before he falls asleep on Louis’s chest.

 

❡❡❡

 

When Harry wakes hours later, he’s sore and woozy and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so horrible in his life.  But then, he feels something warm and soft and familiar wrapped around him, and as he opens his eyes to see nothing but sky blue, he realises that Louis’s here and that maybe everything’s okay.  

He doesn’t speak for a long time.  He just watches; inspects the blue and the feathers and the caramel, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to remember if he doesn’t.  Then, finally, he opens his lips and whispers, “Happy birthday,” and Louis looks like he’s about to cry. 

“I hate you,” is all Louis can whisper, sobs building in his throat.  “I hate you so fucking much, Harry.  How could you let this happen to yourself?  How could you do that?  How could you scare me like that?  How could you…How…” 

“Shh,” Harry hushes him, smiling slightly, because this happens to Louis sometimes, and Harry likes taking care of someone for a change, rather than the other way around.  “I’m here.  It’s okay, everything’s okay.”

“Not okay,” Louis mumbles vaguely into the fabric of Harry’s hospital gown, and Harry can only sigh, running his thumb over Louis’s shoulder.  

“I’m sorry I scared you, Lou,” he whispers, because he really is.  He hates it when Louis’s upset.  He  _hates_ it, and he needs to make it better.  “Will you let me fix it?”  Louis is silent, because he has no idea what Harry’s talking about, but then he props his chin up on Harry’s chest and nods, his head moving up and down as Harry breaths.  Harry smiles, biting his lip, because even though he’s sick and he’s aching and he’s never felt worse in his life, he’s excited to give Louis his birthday present.  

“In the cupboard, to the left of the sink,” he croaks, and Louis’s brow wrinkles in confusion before he sniffles and drags himself across the floor.  He returns with a small gift bag, one that Harry and Anne prepared the day before.  “Go on,” Harry whispers, smiling, and Louis bites his lip before lowering himself onto the mattress, just beside Harry, and tugging the tissue from the bag.  When he lifts a soft, green beanie into his hands, he can only stare, because it’s just like the one Harry wears over his head now.  

“Wanted to match,” Harry breaths, shrugging slightly and wincing as the movement sends pain up and down his middle.  “But I know you like green.”  Louis doesn’t say anything.  He only tugs the beanie over his head and dabs at his eyes once more, because they’re watering again.  Then, he reaches into the bag and lifts a little tin, carrying a cupcake and a swathe of matches.  

“You got me a fucking cupcake?” he finally asks as he glances up at Harry, who nods, wondering if Louis is offended by the gift, or just a bit of a wreck at the moment.  

“You going to light it?” he asks curiously, and Louis can only nod, pursing his lips tightly, because he’s not sure what will come out of his mouth if he lets them loose.  

“Help me?” he asks quietly, just daring to open his lips because he’s never been good with matches, and Harry can only chuckle and take the match from his hand.  When their fingers brush, Harry feels butterflies again, but this time he thinks he knows why.

“Make a wish,” Harry breaths, his voice faint, and Louis’s lower lip trembles as he screws his eyes shut and blows out the candle with one heavy breath, as if worried he wouldn’t be thorough enough.  He doesn’t eat the cupcake afterward.  He just lifts the little tin and sets it on Harry’s bedside table before curling back up on the mattress and snuggling into Harry’s side, and for once it’s Harry’s turn to hold someone and tell them that everything will be all right.

The two are silent, but not much needs to be said.  All Harry can see is the dark of the room and the rise and fall of Louis’s shoulders, and all he can feel and hear is Louis’s warm breath against the dip of his neck.  Louis’s palm is clamped firmly over Harry’s heart, and he makes sure to absorb every beat, every pulse.  

“What’d you wish for?” Harry finally asks.  

“Can’t tell you,” Louis replies with a drowsy mumble, and Harry only laughs.  “Won’t come true.”

“Go on,” Harry smiles, because he really wants to know what Louis wished for, and for once, he’s not sure what’s going on behind those blue eyes. 

“I don’t think I should say,” Louis admits.  “You might think badly of me.”

“That’s impossible,” Harry murmured, smiling quietly, and Louis only blushes, closing his eyes as he nuzzles his head closer to Harry’s shoulder.  “Did you wish that I wasn’t sick?” Harry asks, gently, because he knows Louis would be ashamed of the wish.  Louis only sighs.  He’s silent for a long moment, and Harry doesn’t think he’s going to answer, but then…

“No,” Louis confesses, and Harry’s eyes are wide and confused, because if Louis didn’t wish for Harry’s health, then what did he wish for?

“That would be quite a lot to wish for.  You’d think I was selfish,” Louis continues his lips moving against Harry’s neck, and Harry represses a shudder, because Anne’s words are reverberating around his head and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so many butterflies in his stomach and he doesn’t think his cheeks have ever felt so warm.  

“That’s not a lot,” Harry contradicts him after a long moment, and now his voice is nervous and cracked because Louis’s lips aren’t leaving his neck, and they’re too warm and too soft, and Harry’s having a difficult time trying not to picture them against his own.

“Course it is,” Louis mumbles, his voice ashamed and embarrassed as he tugs his brand new beanie more snugly over his ears.  “If you weren’t sick, we could do so much together.”  

Harry waits.  Part of him is sad, and part of him is happy.  He’s happy because he’s glad Louis wants to do things with him.  He’s sad because he knows, try as he may, that he’ll never be good enough for him; not while this disease is numbering his days, one by one.  

“Tell me,” Harry breaths, and he can barely speak now, because there’s something different about this moment, this conversation—something  _intimate,_ personal, and he knows Louis can feel it too.  “Tell me what we would do.”

It’s as if Louis’s been waiting for the question his whole life; as if he has every answer memorised, because when he opens his mouth, Harry doesn’t think he’s ever heard so much  _want_ in anyone’s voice before.  

“We could play football,” he begins, quietly, and there’s a smile in his voice.  “I’d coach you, just you and me, and you’d be the clumsiest, most charming player in the pitch.”  Harry’s breath catches as he laughs, because Louis just called him  _charming,_ and there go the butterflies again. 

“When we graduated,” Louis breaths, “I would take you everywhere.  We’d go to every place you’ve ever read about in those books,” Louis whispers, and Harry knows he’s talking about the encyclopedias Harry reads to pass the time.  “We’d go to London and Paris.  We’d go to Spain and Japan, and maybe even America.  We could go to Australia, and you would make fun of the way I swim, and I’d make fun of your sunburns.  Fuck, Harry, we could lie out under the stars every night, if you wanted.  Every single night.” 

And then, Harry’s crying, because no one’s ever said anything so lovely to him before, and he doesn’t think anyone will ever make him happy like Louis does.  He sniffles and dabs at his eyes, but he wants Louis to continue because he feels like he’s in a dream that he never wants to end.

“We could find a flat together, or a house,” Louis says, his voice nothing more than a whisper, because Louis worries that if he raises his voice he’ll start to cry too.  “Whichever.  We’d have really stupid, useless knick-knacks, like bottles of wine we’ll never drink, and boring glass paperweights that sit in the kitchen and get all dusty.  We could have a cat or a dog, and fight over what to name them.  You’d want something simple and sweet, like Oliver or Molly, and I’d want to name it after a Power Ranger or something stupid like that.  We could go to Uni, and I’d watch you graduate, and I’d be so proud, you’d make me sleep on the porch for a week.  I would brag to everyone about how I have the most special person in the whole world at my side.” 

Harry can barely hear Louis now, because his chest is heaving so heavily and the tears are falling too thickly from his eyes, but God, he’s straining to hear every word because if misses so much a syllable he’d never forgive himself.

“Why didn’t you wish for that, then?” Harry finally asks, voice weak and rough.  “If we could do all these things, why don’t you wish that I was healthy?”  Louis doesn’t hesitate to reply.

“Because,” he says softly, as if it were the simplest thing the world.  “If you had never been sick, I never would have met you.”

Harry doesn’t think he can reply to that; if he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to pull himself together again, because Louis spoke his mind - Yes, it’s been hard.  Yes, it’s cost him his childhood and his confidence and his strength, but he wouldn’t trade his leukaemia for anything in the word, because if he did, he wouldn’t have Louis.  

"What  _did_ you wish for, then?” he whispers, his throat growing tighter and tighter. Louis is quiet for a long time before he answers, his chin bobbing against Harry’s chest.

“I wished I was brave.”

It’s such an odd, unexpected answer that Harry’s not quite sure how to respond.  He was honestly waiting for something deep and meaningful, but he can’t seem to put the pieces together now.  Louis seems to understand, because he chuckles, and when he does, Harry hears tears in his own voice, filling the room with his weeping.

“You wish you were brave?” Harry asks, taking a few deep breaths and wincing when his chest writhes with unwelcome pain.  

“Yeah,” Louis says, and his voice is shaking now, not with emotion but with nerves, and suddenly Harry’s not sure what’s coming next.  “I wish I were brave enough to kiss you.”

And that’s all Harry needs to hear before his eyes widen and his limbs lock, and suddenly he can’t quite breath properly because the butterflies in his stomach are more wild and abundant than ever, and his cheeks must be the colour of a tomato now, and because Louis’s face is suddenly much closer to his than it was before.

“I think you just might get your wish,” Harry breathes, his voice barely audible now because really, it’s nothing more than a whir of air, but Louis can hear him, and that’s all that matters.  

“I as well,” Louis says, and he laughs a bit shakily, but it’s still one of the loveliest sounds Harry has ever heard.  And then, all he can see are Louis’s cheekbones, and Louis’s jaw, and Louis’s silky eyelashes, and Louis’s mouth that, god dammit,  _still_ looks like ribbon, and then there’s nothing but blue. 

When Louis closes his eyes, all he feels are warm damp and lips careful hands, and he can feel Louis’s fingers shaking and he can taste the sweet tea Louis drank earlier, and Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been so scared in his life but at the same time, it’s utterly and impossibly perfect, because Louis’s got him and Louis will always keep him safe.  When Louis’s mouth shapes around his, his thoughts are an endless mantra of  _Louis Louis Louis_ because the boy with the blue eyes is all Harry ever needed and it’s all he needs now.  

He’s not quite sure what to do when his mouth is cold again and Louis lowers himself onto Harry’s chest, warm and light and solid, and his hands just flutter for a moment before Louis captures them in his own.  When Louis winds his fingers through his, he feels like the four year old boy crying over a needle, and he thinks dimly that nothing has changed.  He has his Louis, and he’s certain of Louis and everything he encompasses, and Louis’s here and he’s certain of Harry.  And yet, so much is different, because Harry’s not afraid anymore.  

He’s sicker and weaker than he’s ever been in his life, and the heart monitor by his bed is making strange sounds that neither can hear, but at the same time, he feels like he’s got the energy of the earth in the palm of his hands and in his lips, and finally, he’s achieved some sort of fulfillment in life; some sort of nirvana.  

Neither of them speak as Louis’s cheek presses into Harry’s chest and their fingers latch, and Harry knows that both of them are shaky and unbelieving, but he also knows that neither of them has ever felt so extraordinary.  He feels Louis’s uneven breath against his arm and feels his lips trembling against his skin.  He feels Louis’s heart beating quickly against his stomach in rhythm of the butterflies still fluttering madly in his middle, and he knows Louis can hear Harry’s heart beating against his ear, as strong and quick as it ever has been since he was healthy. 

Finally, Louis turns his head and rests his chin upon Harry’s heart, and Harry’s blinded by blue, and suddenly Louis’s lips and Louis’s eyes andjust  _Louis_ have never looked so real.  

“You know what else we would do, you and I?” Louis whispers, and Harry thinks Louis’s eyes may be wet, but he can’t be sure because his own eyes are still brimming with tears.  

“What?” he asks, voice cracking slightly.

“I’d convince you to sing to me, somehow.” Louis says, and Harry’s heart misses a beat.  “Because I know you’re hiding that beautiful voice somewhere.”

And suddenly, Harry’s terrified once more, because he’s never sung in front of anyone before, but it’s Louis’s birthday, and, well, Louis is  _Louis._ If Louis wants him to sing then that’s what he’ll do.  

He’s not sure what he sings when he opens his mouth, or even if he’s singing anything at all.  All he knows is that Louis closes his eyes and smiles as he lays his head back down to Harry’s chest, and Harry can feel the warm damp of Louis’s tears on his skin.   Harry’s lips are moving and his chest is humming and he’s hearing a nice sound, so he  _must_ be singing, right?

He’s singing to Louis, he thinks, and he feels that, for once, everything is in balance.  

This time, the sick sings the healthy; the weak sings to the strong, and yet in that moment they are equal, infinite.  

For once, Harry shows Louis what the stars sound like, and when Harry’s eyes begin to droop and Louis’s breaths become even, they both fall asleep.

Only one of them wakes.

 

❡❡❡

 

Louis’s cold and stiff as he tugs the green beanie more tightly over his ears, and yet he feels slack and vulnerable as he ambles his way up the hill of dying grass.  He keeps his eyes firmly on his shoes as he passes the dying leaves, the dying flowers, the dying sun in the sky.

 _Dead things in a dying place,_ he thinks.

The flowers hidden inside his coat are very much alive, though.  As he glances around the empty reserve, he sees that he and the flowers are the only ones.  

 _Bernard Elliot.  Hannah Thatcher.  Charlotte Greene._ Names he doesn’t know pass beneath his feet; names that mean nothing to him but everything to others.  Finally, he reaches the name that is worth more than the heart that beats in his chest.

“Hi,” he says, a little breathlessly, and a cloud of heat erupts from his lips and into the autumn air.  It’s unseasonably chilly, and he doesn’t like it.  Harry hated the cold.

“Brought you some flowers,” he continues to mumble to the slate at his toes, staring and unmoving, mocking him.  He bends to lay the fresh bouquet at the foot of the stone, and smiles when the colours brighten the setting.  “That’s better,” he breathes, brushing his hands free of spare leaves and folding his legs neatly beneath him when he sits.  

“Sorry it’s been so long since my last visit,” he mumbles apologetically, eyes wide as he gazes at the stone, as if begging the slab of rock for forgiveness.  “It’s been busy.  Your sister, Gemma; she’s engaged, you know.  We’ve been planning the wedding.  Personally, I absolutely  _loathe_ the bloke, but that’s her decision, innit?”  He blinks silently down at the stone, as if waiting for an answer.  He mentally kicks himself, because he should  _know_ by now that no answer is coming.  

“Anyways, mum told me to send my love.  I’d say the same for Anne, but I think she’ll be here tomorrow to do so herself.  She’s….She’s not been well.  Was a right wreck when you…When you left.  We all were.”  Louis is quiet for a moment, eyebrows furrowed before he scoffs.  “Some of us still are.”

This isn’t the first time he’s been unable to force words from his mouth during one of his visits to Harry.  He has so much to say, so much to pour, and yet, he’s not sure he wants to hear some of those words out loud.

“Well…” he says, sounding almost mockingly nonchalant as he scuffs his toe against the grass. "I, uh…I got back from Australia yesterday." He takes a deep breath, as if about to admit some horrible confession. "Spent the trip camping, you know, under the stars. Liam offered to come along, but…" Louis pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, because shit, his throat is already tight. 

"I just…I needed it to just be you and me, like I promised. God, it was so  _beautiful_ , Haz, underneath all those lights. I was looking for you up there, wondering if you were with me. It was just you and I.” 

And then he’s burying his face in his hands and pressing his fiver tips to his eyelids, because he can’t lose it again, not here and over Harry’s grave. 

"Fuck," he whispers, voice cracked. "Promised myself I wouldn’t do this. I know you never liked to see me cry." 

And  _God_ , what he wouldn’t give in that moment to talk to Harry one more time, to see those damned dimples or those green eyes; hell, to see him roll his eyes at Louis’s idiocy one more fucking time….

"I can’t… I just…" He manages, and he’s beginning to sob, and damn him to hell, because he promised that he wouldn’t let Harry down like this. Harry would have wanted him to carry on, to be strong. 

"I know I’m disappointing you," he began to weep, his chest inflating and deflating with harsh breaths. "And I’m sorry, Harry, I really am. It’s just another silly mistake I’m making, innit? Couldn’t ever get it right with you, not until the end, anyway." 

Part of him was well aware that Harry’s passing was due to an uncommonly quiet, peaceful instance of respiratory failure, but part of him wondered whether or not any fate or spiritual matters came into play. They had both found finality and closure on that last night, he and Harry, but he could t be sure if that was due to a feint, undercover knowledge that this was the end, or if that feeling of finality had caused Harry’s passing. He knew he was being ridiculous, and he knew that it was far too late to consider the idea, but he couldn’t help thinking, couldn’t help wondering.  Maybe, he had made the last moments of Harry’s life the best that he possibly could. Well, at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself to get by. 

"It’s been five years," Louis whispers. "Five damn years, and I still can’t go one day without waking up and seeing your green eyes and hearing your voice." He’s lost any hope of control now, and salty years are trickling through his fingers, and it really doesn’t help because so long ago, those fingers fit perfectly with Harry’s; with a hand that he’ll never feel again.  

"I…" He begins, dragging the back of his hand across his slick cheeks and signing as he struggles to pull himself together. "I, uh….I have something to show you." And, with shaking fingers, he grips the hem of his shirt and lifts it up to expose his abdomen.  Even after so many months, the sight that lies beneath his belly still makes him flinch. 

A deep scar, purple and unpleasant, lies jagged and rough in the soft skin, and deeper still lies the unmistakable trickles and patterns of blue that define blood poisoning. 

"Untreated peritonitis,” he whispers, almost as if it were a godsend.  “Found it a couple of months ago, they did.  Apparently, it developed from an underlying complication caused by the appendectomy I had when I was six.”  Louis lowered his shirt once more; if Harry  _could_ see him somehow, he didn’t want to show him the gruesome image.

“D’you remember, Harry?  The day we met, you asked me about the scar on my stomach.  You were so proud, for once, to have something that someone else didn’t, and…and I was proud to make to happy.” Louis’s tearing up again, and he’s growing so incredibly frustrated with himself, because god  _dammit,_ does he have no control?  

Well, he knows the answer to that.  When it came to Harry, everything and nothing was certain.

“Well, about the peritonitis… They’re saying it’s fatal; that I… That I shouldn’t expect to follow through.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath, a loud sniffle filling he quiet air. “And at first, I was scared.  Knowing my life is on the line for so long… I’m not sure how you lived through that for sixteen years. I only hope I made those years a little more bearable for you, love, I really do.” Louis’s quiet for a moment. 

"They’re saying that, when it happens, it won’t be fast, and it won’t be painless…but whether it’s easy or not, I know I’ll see you on the other side." 

Louis’s not sure how long he sits there, knees tucked to his chest and tears bleeding into his jeans; all he knows is that when he finally glances up, the sun has dipped beneath the horizon and the stars and blurred, twinkling eyes above him. He wonders which pair of eyes belong to Harry. As he searches them, gaze desperate and wanting, he realises that it doesn’t matter. Eventually, he’ll be a pair of eyes, too.

He rises slowly to his feet, his fingers shaking like they did on that December night five years ago, and he takes one last look at the lonely grave.

"I’ll see you soon, Haz."

 


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of finality. Going forward is optional.

Louis’s terrified, but he’s also never been so relieved. It’s January eighth, just fifteen days past his twenty-fourth birthday; his time is up. His body has taken more time than it had any right to; he’s lived eleven months past his expiration date, and he’s getting a bit bored of waiting around.

His family understands. They understand he wants to get a move on, to quit feeling so bloody horrible, to quit feeling that constant burn in his middle, crawling up his limbs and to his heart. They understand he’s got someone waiting for him on the other side.

Still, Lottie never misses an opportunity to tell him how much she loves him. The twins bring him cards and clumsily cut school crafts every day, their names scribed in messy letters and green hearts scratched over greener construction paper. To match his beanie, they tell him, because they love Louis’s green beanie. Louis loves it too. Felicite isn’t quite sure what to make of everything; she’s older than the twins and just now understanding that once Louis leaves, he’s not coming back. She spends a lot of time cuddling Louis in the hospital, watching television with wide eyes and a silent mouth. Jay just cries.

She’s been awfully kind about everything, making sure he’s sleeping when she clutches his hands, making sure she’s hidden in the bathroom when she wipes her eyes. It’s her _boy_ , though; her only son, her first borne, and any moment now there won’t be any boy to speak of.

Anne and Gemma come by often as well. Anne has never forgotten how he’s taken care of her own son, and Gemma’s never forgotten how he loved her baby brother. They’ve become good friends over the past several years. Anne is important, too, to Jay; she knows what Jay is going through all too well.

When it happens, there’s no touching scene of soft, tired smiles and tearful gazes, no farewell hugs and kisses. Louis’s dying, nearly dead, and he can’t move in his bed. It isn’t exactly unexpected; when Louis’s deadline came and went and he was still breathing, no one had ever been so frightened – they’d had a timeline, a day to point to, and now they don’t know when or how it will happen. There’s nothing quite as scary to a mother as looking at her son’s doctor and asking _when, how long_ , only to be answered by a shrug and a helpless, _He should have already died by now._

There’s something about today, though, that is drenched heavy with the understanding that there won’t be a tomorrow for Louis, and though no one has said so, they all know, and they’re all aware of it.

Louis can barely keep his eyes open; he’s gone into septic shock and he’s only vaguely aware of his own surroundings. There’s a foggy, runny pain pulsing sluggishly through every inch of his body, pale yellow and thin, but behind the blurred lenses of his eyes he can make out the bobbing heads of the twins, the ponytail of his mother, the silhouette of Gemma.

It’s a Tuesday, and Lottie and Felicite are at school. Anne has work. When Louis’s blood pressure began to drop Jay was called by his doctor, and Gemma, who had been babysitting the twins, had driven them over as quickly as she could.

“He’s just in pain, now, Johanna,” he could hear his doctor saying quietly, his words sounding like puddles as they melted behind Louis’s ears. His brain was turning fuzzy. “You know his kidneys have failed. We could go into emergency surgery and give him a transplant, but his chances of surviving at this point are less than ten percent., and it will only prolong his suffering.” Jay simply sobs.

“It’s been eleven months, Jay,” Louis hears Gemma murmur, her own voice cracking. “He’s been on borrowed time, you know that.” Louis would sigh with relief if he could. He wants to go, doesn’t want to live in this infected shell anymore. He wants to see him again.

“My baby,” Jay can only weep, and he hears the mosh of clothing as Gemma holds her. The twins are hovering quietly beside Louis’s bed.

“Mumma, is Louis dying?” one of them, Phoebe – no, Daisy – asks, and Louis doesn’t hear a reply. He feels tiny fingers wrap around his own, those of his baby sisters, and if could squeeze, he would. He closes his eyes.

 

❡❡❡

 

In the beginning, all he feels is like a train slowing down, wheels chugging endlessly along tracks, the engine decelerating, and a sharp, strong pain accompanies this, greater than anything he’s felt thus far. He wants to scream but he waits, knows it will go away soon. This pain is the down side of dying, the shutting down of his body won’t be anything but painful.

Then, he feels it slowly begin to ebb, like stepping out of a pool and feeling water slide off of limbs. If he still had a mouth, he’d sigh, smile. He only sees again when there is no more pain to speak of, when the last of the being, of the existing, drips from him and he realises he’s floating.

Stars. All he sees is stars.

He looks down, but remembers that he has nothing to look with nor anything to look at; he’s simply disembodied nothingness now, just hope in the cosmos, and he searches.

Something about one of the stars very far off catches his attention, and as he focuses particularly on that little star, he just knows, and if he still had a heart it’d be rocketing in his chest, because oh God, he’s _there_.

“Hi,” he hears, shy and low and slow, and suddenly Louis sees nothing but black again, and then a vision, and hallucination seems to form, like an invisible hand sketching across empty pages. He’s dreaming, dreaming of having arms and legs and eyes, and his eyes are the most important things because they blink, startled, and then they look up to see green.

“Hi,” he whispers, and Harry takes his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

“I’ve always been here,” Harry murmurs, presses his lips to Louis’s dreamt forehead, and Louis closes his eyes, whispers that he knows. “Look,” Harry whispers, takes his own blue beanie off to reveal a full, healthy head of curls, unburdened by chemotherapy, looking as lush as anyone’s. “I’m not sick, Lou.”

Louis can only smile; he doesn’t know what would happen if he let himself cry, if he can cry in this permanent ether.

“Come on,” he says, takes Harry’s hand. “Let’s go watch the stars.”

They close their eyes and disappear.


End file.
